I’m neither sentimental nor a martyr. I’m not going to get sent to Jilava Prison for poetry. The moment that counts is the moment of spasm. Six years ago, when we met, was one of those, but it passed and I missed it. It’ll be back some day, and I won’t miss it again.’

Evening fell. The sun bathed the big windows of the casino with a violent glow. It was clear we were both thinking of the same thing, the meaning of that red blaze, as we suddenly looked up at one another.

‘I think you’re wrong. And if you’re not wrong, that’s even worse.’

The park was full of beautiful women, full of white dresses. We parted as friends.

General ideas are S.T.H.’s vocation. I lost the habit for them long ago. When was the last time I had a discussion involving arguments, issues and principles?

One might say I’m becoming coarsened. But life is so simple now, so clear.

I remembered my blue notebook from 1923. Where could it be? At home, perhaps, in some drawer or box. I’m going to look for it someday, though I think it’ll be embarrassing to re-read it. Lord, what folly must be written there … But perhaps not entirely my fault. S.T.H. is right: it was a moment of crisis. I was expecting signs in the street – and there was nothing in the street but confusion, the fog of stupidity, intoxication. So I took refuge in intellectual problems, which cast no light, but gave me consolation. It was a simple game and also gave me a certain illusion of personal superiority. I reduced everything to the drama of being a Jew, which is perhaps a constant reality, but not such an overwhelming one that it should cancel or even supersede strictly personal dramas and comedies. I was, I believe, two steps away from fanaticism. Interrupting my diary was a good thing to have done. Writing only fed my fever. From the day I tossed that notebook aside and let the days pass of their own accord, without commenting, without escapism, things settled down bit by bit and became simpler, calmer.

*

On Thursday, old Ralph returned from abroad and went straight to the oilfield from the train station. It was clear he had an intuition. He made a terrible scene, sowing panic for a kilometre around.

I later heard that at the wells and in the offices everyone was trembling with apprehension. ‘The boss is furious’ went the news, in a chain of whispers. I was lucky that Marin Dronţu was there too, so I was able to keep quiet without my silence appearing insolent. The old fellow wouldn’t stop.